Laconic
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: A series of one-shots based on ten (deceptively evil) one-word prompts from Halcyon Impulsion. Updates will probably be slow because these have been surprisingly difficult to write thus far. Canon divergence is possible, but most should be in compliance.
1. Flight

_**Laconic**_

**Title: Flight**  
** Prompt: #1 - Poem**  
** Summary: When he finally reads it, it shows him a lesson he's already learned.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned the rights to Arrow, I would be writing screenplays, not fanfiction, and I'd probably be doing a horrible job. :D**

**Notes:** So, this is from a set of prompts from Halcyon Impulsion, which I received from MysteriousTwinkie because she's doing the same thing. I've been thinking on them for a while, and I _finally_ came up with a little idea. It's not very long, but I think it serves its purpose. Anyway, reviews are always appreciated, if you feel so moved. :) The poem in this is "The Arrow and the Song" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

* * *

Oliver never quite understood the power of poetry until Felicity came into his life. He still remembers the first time he met her, when she made that reference to _Hamlet_, and he figured then that she was a fan of literature. But, as much as she likes the written word, poetry is probably her favorite.

Of course, he didn't realize this until much later, until after she officially joined the team. He'll never forget that it was raining that night, and so he decided to take the time for some extra target practice instead of hooding up and possibly getting pneumonia. In his mind, Starling City needed their Vigilante in perfect working condition, so he chose not to mark any names of the list that night.

He had made it through several quivers full of arrows already when he turned to see that Felicity was watching him instead of doing... whatever it was she did on her computers. To his relief, she didn't seem afraid, instead wearing a thoughtful, contemplative expression. "I can stop if you want me to," he offered gently, not wanting to upset her. She still harbored some tension after she thought he was going to harm that single father, so he didn't want to push his luck.

To his surprise, Felicity shook her head, smiling slightly. "No, it's fine," she assures him. "I was just thinking of how much that reminds me of this poem." She stops abruptly, he remembers, as if she's said more than she wanted to. But, then, it's Felicity, so she probably did; those were the days when she did the most rambling.

"What poem?" he prompted, quirking his eyebrow to emphasize his question as he moved closer to her computer desk.

She waved a hand. "You know, Longfellow," she said dismissively, but when she realized he wasn't going to let it go, she huffed. "It's from a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 'I shot an arrow into the air, / It fell to earth, I knew not where; / For, so swiftly it flew, the sight / Could not follow in its flight.'" She looked up at him sheepishly, as though she should have been embarrassed by knowing the poem by heart. Before he could respond, she turned back to her computer work, humming some sort of tune under her breath—a tune that he still hears in his head every time he takes aim.

Now, as he reads it for the first time, he can't help but smile at the words:

_"I shot an arrow into the air,_  
_It fell to earth, I knew not where;_  
_For, so swiftly it flew, the sight_  
_Could not follow in its flight._

_I breathed a song into the air,_  
_It fell to earth, I knew not where;_  
_For who has sight so keen and strong,_  
_That it can follow the flight of song?_

_Long, long afterward, in an oak_  
_I found the arrow, still unbroke;_  
_But the song, from beginning to end,_  
_I found again in the heart of a friend."_


	2. Fairytale

**Title: Fairytale**  
** Prompt: #2 - Myth, #3 - Spark**  
**Summary: Maybe fairytale moments don't exist because we stop looking for them. **  
** Word Count: 1421**

**Notes:** So I've been thinking about those 100 wonderful reviews on Little Talks, and I decided to give you what I hope is a reward. I've been trying to write something amazing for you all day, and then I got in the shower, and well, this is what I think about apparently. :P This is a thank-you to all my lovely reviewers—AO3 or FanFiction; your location doesn't matter. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I leave you to your own conclusions. :) Reviews are awesome (and inspire me to write more!) if you have the time, but if you don't, well, thanks for reading. :)

**Also, this is very raw because I just finished it a few minutes ago. Typos bug me, so if you see any errors, let me know. :)**

* * *

"Remind me why I agreed to this again," Felicity complains as she sits down behind her desk at Queen Consolidated. It's the destination that bothers her more than the formal dress. It's pure white with abstract designs in bold colors. A pair of strappy emerald heels are next to her desk, and they perfectly match the color in the dress. While she'd normally be thrilled for an opportunity to go to an event with Oliver, she's not sure this one applies.

"Because I needed a plus-one for my mother's campaign fundraiser," Oliver replies with an almost smile he seems to reserve for her alone, "and I asked you." She dares to look over at him, and she regrets it instantly; she's not going to get the sight of him in suspenders out of her mind anytime soon, especially with that open collar on his dress shirt because he hasn't put on his tie yet.

She huffs as she does some last, final computing operations before they have to leave. "Couldn't you find someone _else_ to go with you?" she huffs. Things haven't been going so well with Moira since Felicity ratted out the result of Thea's paternity tests to Oliver, and she's not exactly sure of being on her son's arm all night is the best way to mend fences. But she had felt sorry for him; the breakup with Sara had hit him hard, and Felicity has always been a sucker for a sad face—especially one as _pretty_ as Oliver's.

Oliver waits until he has her full attention before he finally dares to say, his eyes boring into hers, "I probably could have, but I wanted _you_ with me." He's so serious as he says it, and Felicity has to blink twice before she can finally manage coherent thought again. Something about their friendship has solidified and changed since Sara called it quits, but Felicity doesn't dare define it. Whatever it is, though, he's been more apt to say things like that—things that could be misconstrued as something more than Felicity knows them to be.

She huffs, her nerves already frayed for the night. "You seriously need to stop saying things like that," she warns him. The speed at which he's decided to switch from conversation to idle flattery catches her off-guard, and it's only after the words leave her mouth that she realizes what she's said.

He frowns, but not really; there's a hint of that smug half-smile still scattered across his features. "Things like what?" he asks innocently, perhaps a little too much.

"Like what you just said," she retorts. "You know, that thing where you say nice things, but you're so intense when you say them. It makes me feel like agreeing to anything." She thinks about how he gave her that version of the it's-not-you-it's-me speech after Russia—a very long time ago, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. "Talk about giving a girl mixed signals," she mutters, but then she realizes by that smile on his face that he probably heard her. So, louder, she adds, "You know, mixed signals? Sometimes guys talk about girls being the ones to give them, but you probably don't know what I'm talking about. Like any girl would be stupid enough to give _you_ mixed signals." She shakes her head before she goes too far into her rant. "My point being that mixed signals are not as mythical as you've been led to believe, and you need to stop doing it."

He smirks at her for a moment as he processes her rant, but he leans against the glass wall as he pulls his black silk tie under his collar, pulling it into a proper knot. "For the record," he starts in that playful tone that promises absolutely _nothing_ good, "I think that unicorns, goblins, and those whale... things with the horns are mythical. Not mixed signals."

He looks rather stunned when a green, strappy heel pops against his chest and he catches it before it falls, staring at it as if it just fell out of the sky. "It's called a narwhal," Felicity corrects angrily, pointing her finger at him, "and they are _not_ mythical. Narwhals are real, because nothing that awesome can be mythical. Don't you _ever_ say that again."

Her rant elicits something she's never heard from him before: a laugh. She decides she likes the sound, and that she'll probably talk about (the most certainly _real_) narwhals more often in the future just to hear that sound. "Did you just throw a _shoe_ at me?" he asks, incredulously, holding it up with a finger under the strap, as though touching them will cause his fingers to melt off or something.

Felicity's face flames uncomfortably. "Maybe," she admits sheepishly, "but it was only because the monitor is hooked up to the CPU." His eyes widen in response. "Narwhals are a sensitive subject around here, okay? Just let it go, Oliver."

He holds his hands up in defeat, before bringing her the shoe. In a moment of surprising boldness, he kneels in front of her and slips her foot into the shoe and fastens it. For a moment, it reminds her of that scene in Cinderella, and of fairytale moments that supposedly don't exist—but that she's secretly always believed in, just like narwhals.

Once he finishes, he looks up at her with that intensity she equally loathes and can't get enough of, the kind that always makes her feel like he's staring into her soul. "And I'm _not_ sending mixed signals," he assures her. "You're just not interpreting them right."

He rises and turns to go back to his office, probably to grab his suit coat, but Felicity rises to her feet and pulls his arm to turn him around. As he's looking at her, that brave feeling she had turns into false bravado, and she chickens out. Her eyes drop to his tie and the poor knot he's fastened. With hesitant hands and eyes that won't look at his, she re-fastens the tie so that it falls better, slowly pulling the knot up toward his throat. "You know," she starts, but has to clear her throat to get that hoarse quality out of it, "for a billionaire, you always do a really horrible job with your tie."

He seems to allow that criticism, smiling that half-smile again, tilting her chin up so that he can meet her eyes. It's only then that she realizes how close they are, his face inches away hers. Before she can scurry away from the awkward situation, his mouth falls on hers, and she has only enough time to think that he's going to totally _ruin_ the lipstick she just finished putting on before her brain short-circuits altogether. It's a fairytale moment to her, and she's pretty sure she can see sparks under her closed eyelids and hear an angelic choir in her ears.

Felicity isn't quite sure how long the moment lasts, but when he finally pulls away, he turns and glares at the tapping sound coming from the glass wall—when did _that_ start? She feels every inch of her skin heat in a way that has _nothing_ to do with that kiss as she sees Diggle pointing to his watch on the other side, reminding Felicity that she has something to do besides . It's then that she realizes that she and Oliver have somehow intertwined, one hand at her waist, the other sweeping her cheek, and her arms around his neck. She wonders vaguely when that happened, but then decides it doesn't matter.

Oliver's smug smile is a little ridiculous as she pulls away to redo her lipstick, but he takes a moment to say, "I hope that clarifies all of those mixed signals." She does her best to ignore him, but it's ridiculously difficult when he takes her hand and pulls her up beside him, her arm through his.

She scoffs. "I don't know if that was clear enough," she replies sarcastically, still trying to keep her flushing under control. Kissing Oliver is one thing, but getting caught is another matter entirely.

She expects comment from Diggle, but she's disappointed; he doesn't say anything as he collects Felicity and Oliver. She tries to studiously ignore him, too, but it's impossible to ignore someone with as much presence as Diggle. "Aren't you going to say something?" she asks finally, exasperated.

He just shakes his head, his expression impassive. "It's about damn time."


	3. Allay

**Title: Allay**  
** Prompt: #3 - Phobia**  
** Summary: Bravery and fearlessness are two very different things.**  
**Word Count: 982**

**Notes:** Special thanks to quisinart4, who gave me the idea of writing an established relationship fic. Somehow that translated into a piece in Laconic, but I don't think anyone will mind. :P Part of this was written at midnight, so it may be a little crack!fic-y in places. I think I've edited most of those out, but it you should be prepared. :D Either way, let me know what you think! :)

* * *

Oliver Queen does not consider himself to be a rational, reasonable human being. He's survived thus far by acting upon instinct, on feelings and intuition. He generally follows his first instinct toward his goal, and, because of that, he's chosen to surround himself with rational, reasonable human beings like Digg and Felicity. They both guide him in the right direction when his instincts are more suited to battle than to actual civilian life, and, while he doesn't always _like_ it, he respects it. But sometimes it doesn't matter what reasoning anyone has—especially when the well-being of someone he loves is on the line.

That reasoning is what he blames for his reaction when Felicity yells, "Oliver!" two octaves higher than normal, in a tone reminiscent of fear. She's supposed to be dressing into her workout gear because she finally won her argument with Oliver about learning to fight, and Sara agreed to help train her.

Oliver's instincts take over at that point, and he barely acknowledges that he picks his bow and a few arrows from their respective stands, charging toward the bathroom with alarming speed. He vaguely thinks that she might be in a state of undress—and that it would be a difficult challenge for both of them if that were the case—but he decides that her safety is the most important thing.

He charges the bathroom to find her fully dressed (an observation that both relieves him and disappoints him), cowering in one corner of the room and pointing to the opposite. "What's wrong?" he demands in a tone an octave lower than normal, almost growling the words. When she doesn't answer fast enough for his liking, he looks in the direction she indicates, confused when he sees nothing at all.

That doesn't stop Felicity from grabbing his arm and pointing insistently in the same direction of nothing. "Oliver!" she cries again in that same tone. "Thank God!" She finally notices the bow, and motions for him to actually aim it. "Shoot it, stab it, kill it with fire! I don't care what you do—just get _rid_ of it!"

He tries to tamp down his annoyance at the invisible enemy he's supposed to be fighting. Vaguely, he wonders if she's lost it, but then he realizes this is _Felicity_ he's talking about—she's sane (he thinks). "What is _it?_" he snaps, still not seeing "it."

She does some sort of half-muted shriek before moving closer, pulling him along beside her until, finally, he sees what "it" is. He stifles a laugh, but he can't quite keep the wide smile off of his face. Sure, it's probably the largest spider he's ever seen (and he survived on Lian Yu for five years), but it is _just a spider_. "That!" she exclaims as she points, but this time her arm is drawn in closer to her person.

"A spider?" he replies, hoping his tone implies the proper amount of disdain. He feels more than a little foolish for charging to her rescue over a _spider_, but then again, _she's_ the one who screamed bloody murder over a spider and he doesn't feel so reactionary. Before she can respond, he stomps over and squishes it under his shoe, then turns back to her. "Anything else you need me to take care of?" he asks this time, frowning when he realizes that being in the changing room together might not be the best context for that question. Maybe Felicity's awkwardness is contagious.

She must be thinking the same thing because her cheeks heat, but she huffs as if her irritation will cover the reaction. "I'm sorry," is her testy response, "but we can't _all_ be fearless like you. I don't like spiders—I don't like _anything_ with a freakish number of legs." He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off. "And, before you ask, yes, that does extend to octopi and squids, cuttlefish, and most insects."

He vaguely wonders when he stopped being mysterious to her, as she took the words right out of his mouth, but then he realizes it isn't the most important thing. He crosses the distance between them as quickly and efficiently as possible. He hesitates before finally takes her face in his hand, tilting her head up so that she'll look at him. He's not sure about the new change in relationship, of what boundaries she expects him to keep. "Hey," he says quietly, and her eyes snap to his in that attentive way he's come to appreciate. "There's no shame in being afraid. I'm not fearless, either."

She really looks at him then, searching his expression as if she thinks he's humoring her. "Please," she scoffs suddenly, pulling away slightly. "You defend the streets of this city by night, you've nearly died on any number of occasions—too many, by the way—and you've faced down some pretty bad guys without flinching. What could _you_ possibly be afraid of?"

Suddenly his throat is dry, and the words that come out are some of the hardest he's ever uttered. "I'm _terrified_ of losing you," he finally admits in an almost-whisper, placing his hands on her shoulders and searching her eyes with his. Though it's true, he's learned that admitting things aloud breathes life into them, and the last thing he wants is for someone to use that fear against him.

For a very rare instance since he's met her, she takes in a breath and says absolutely nothing for a very long minute. Finally, the corners of her mouth turn up, and she places a kiss on his cheek. "That will never happen," she assures him. He refrains from rolling his eyes; of course she would say that.

But, no matter how cliché her words, he finds it so simple to believe those four simple words when she's the one uttering them.


	4. Argument

**Title: Argument**  
** Prompt: #5 - Demands**  
** Summary: It's a small thing to ask for, so of course he won't hesitate.**

**Notes:** I wanted to write me some sassy!Oliver—sue me. I can't help it; there was a post on tumblr that sparked this (which I reblogged from sarahtwinkie). :) The situation is inspired by my dad, who likes to do the same thing, and it drives me up the wall. :P Thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated. :)

Anyway, I have been working on this for a week because I really wanted to thank everyone on AO3 for making 1000 hits on Technical Assistance possible. Seriously, it's a _one-shot_, and I already have 1000 hits—which is _amazing_! Thanks to all of you!

* * *

"I have some demands," she says to Oliver, arms crossed, mouth set into a frown.

It's the lack of a smile that allows the dread to worm its way into his mind; she's _always_ smiling. Suddenly he's not so sure about the two of them being alone in the lair tonight. He's seen her when she's angry, and she always looks a lot like this. If there's one thing he knows, it's that a very angry Felicity Smoak is the last thing he wants to see in his lair. She can be pretty scary when she wants to be.

Oliver tries to fight off the feeling, opting for the best response in the given scenario. "Before I hear you demands," he replies dryly, "I want to make sure the hostage is unharmed."

A hint of a smile breaks through her expression, which allows him to take a deep breath. Maybe it's not as serious as he originally thought; she wouldn't smile if she was angry. "Cute," she says in a tone that indicates the opposite. "But I'm serious—I have some demands. Otherwise, I'm going to lose my sanity around this place, and I'm not sure I can take any more of this."

Oliver crosses his arms, bracing himself for the onslaught. "All right," he says after a long moment, quietly urging her on.

Her hands start flying immediately, and she starts talking at that ridiculously fast pace. "Look," she says abruptly, a little too loud, "this is the fifth time this week I've found junk on my desk that doesn't belong to me—and it's _Tuesday_." She picks up a series of tubes littered between the keys of one of her keyboards. "While I do appreciate how awesome your girlfriend is with bodily fluids"—she balks, mouth opening without sound for a moment—"and I didn't mean that the way it sounds, but I'd appreciate it if her centrifuge tubes stay—hey, crazy idea—_in the centrifuge!_ And then Diggle! Even _Diggle!_ I love him, don't get me wrong, but..." She picks up a towel draped over her chair with two fingers as evidence, but then she flicks it across the room. "My chair is _not_ a towel rack, Oliver!"

Before he can get a word in edgewise, she pokes him in the chest, which startles him; she's usually more careful to maintain a distance between them. "And _you_, mister," she continues, suddenly hot again, as Oliver balks at her tone, "are the _worst_ of them _all!_" She picks up the shaft of an arrow lying across the desk, behind her keyboard. "You have a place to make arrows"—she points to the other side of the lair where his quiver lay, and the space in front of it—"_right here!_ Why you have to do it at _my_ desk is beyond me!" She frowns as she finally notices the bottle of antiseptic and a set of packed sutures lying near her left computer. "And, don't get me wrong, I don't mind patching you up around here when you come in, but at least put the supplies back when you're done!"

She crosses her arms again, more calm this time. "What _I_ did sign up for was to help you with this mission of ours." Oliver doesn't think she notices the way she says _our_ mission, not _his_ mission. "That's why I put up with your temper, and the death, and the heartbreak of some of the things we do. That's why every day I go to work and do a job that doesn't require a single ounce of my brainpower." She says it without malice, for a change. "But what I did _not_ sign up for is to work as your maid!"

He holds his hands up in defeat for a moment before deciding to rest them on her shoulders. "Felicity," he says quietly, "I'm sorry. We should respect your space more than we do. It's just that there is a lot that happens here, and we don't always have time to work at our designated stations."

"I get that, I do," she responds instantly, "but could you clean up your stuff after you're done? I don't mind you using my desk—it's the mess that drives me insane."

"I'll take care of it," he assures her, picking up the towel from the floor, the arrow shaft, and the medical supplies from the desk, moving away from her desk to put them up.

She smiles. "That's all I ask," she responds.

He thinks it's funny, because he'd do anything for her, and all she asks of him is to clean up after himself.


End file.
